A Little Night Music II
by allthingsdecent
Summary: The same events from A Little Night Music, this time from House's perspective. You don't have to have read the original to follow this, but it helps.


"You're not supposed to be up there, ya know."

House opened his eyes mid-melody, stopped playing, and glared in the direction of the voice.

The guy talking to him was an aging rocker type: Medium build with a surprisingly thick head of dark hair combed straight back, a grey-flecked goatee, and a regrettable number of tattoos coating his arms. House recognized him as Joe, the guitar player/lead singer of the house band, The Joe Hart Four.

"Sorry," House said, softening. "I see an unmanned piano and I have this uncontrollable urge to. . .man it."

Joe smiled.

"I can see why. You're good. It's just that the next thing you know, every drunk in this bar is going to think they're Jerry Lee Lewis."

House regarded the banged up piano skeptically.

"I don't see how much damage they could do," he said. "It's not exactly a Steinway. Besides, it's horribly out of tune."

He struck an errant C chord to make his point.

"I know," Joe winced. "I've been meaning to get that thing tuned."

"I could do it for you," House offered.

"You're a piano tuner?" Joe asked.

"No," House chuckled. "I'm a doctor. But I can tune it."

Joe's eyes widened. "I've never met someone who just knew how to tune a piano. That's complicated stuff, right?"

House shrugged. "I like to know things," he said.

"Well, I tell you what, Doctor. You tune this thing and you can play it anytime you want."

House smiled. "Deal."

He walked to edge of the small stage, saw Joe take in his limp and discreetly look away.

"I'm Hou . . .uh, Greg," he said, extending his hand.

"Nice to meet you Dr. Greg, I'm Joe Hart. I own this God-forsaken place."

"I would never want to go to a bar where God was welcome," House said.

Joe laughed.

"Have you heard our house band, the Joe Hart Four?" he asked. "We play every Thursday night."

"I have. You guys are good."

This was a slight exaggeration. The Joe Hart Four was a good band in the way that Taub was a good ladies' man: What they lacked in polish, they made up for in enthusiasm.

"We could use a pianist for some of our tunes," Joe said, still sizing House up. "You think you might want to sit in one night?"

"I'd love to," House said.

#######

He had chosen Mike's Tavern for a variety of reasons. It was average in such a way that no one from Princeton, or anywhere for that matter, would ever make a special trip to go there. It was dark and seedy, but not too dark and seedy. And the burgers were pretty good.

Life in the hospital had become increasingly unbearable since he and Cuddy had broken up. He hated the look on her face when she saw him—a stomach-churning combination of guilt, concern, and pity. And Wilson—if possible, he was more smothering than ever.

Those two just didn't understood the concept of letting a guy work out his problems on his own.

So he came to the bar and he drank, relishing the peace and quiet.

Joe's wife, Cora, was the perfect bartender for a place like this. Warm, without being too friendly, with a tough girl demeanor that said, "I've been around the block a few times and trust me, I will never judge." Plus, besides occasionally asking him if he wanted any salted peanuts with his scotch, she always left House alone.

But one night, the tavern had emptied out relatively early and it was just House and Cora sitting at the bar. The Nets game had ended—a 103-92 loss, to the Milwaukee Bucks—and the nightly news had come on.

"You mind if I ask you something?" Cora said.

"Shoot," House replied.

"You've been coming in here most nights for over a month and you never say a word to anybody. Which is fine—I hate overly chatty types—but I was just wondering if maybe a little talking might do you some good."

"What do you want to talk about?" House asked warily.

"Why you're so sad."

He was so taken aback by her candor, he followed in kind.

"I'm living the cliché, Cora," he said with a grim chuckle. "I got dumped by my lady."

"Now what kind of crazy girl would dump a catch like you?" Cora said.

"The real question," House countered, "Is what kind of crazy girl would ever date me to begin with?"

"Oh, you're not that bad," Cora said.

"I am that bad. And worse," House assured her. "I'm a cripple, a drug addict, and a jerk."

"Did you hit her?" Cora asked.

House was offended. "No!"

"Did you cheat on her?"

He shook his head. "No," he said, more softly this time.

"Did you tell her you loved her?"

He exhaled slightly. "Every chance I got."

"Yeah, well I can really see why she dumped you, honey."

#######

That night he dreamt about Cuddy. In the dream, he woke up expecting her to be next to him in bed, but she wasn't. He went to the hospital cafeteria, thinking they would meet for breakfast, but she never showed up. He went into her office, which was totally empty, even the shelves cleared of books and photos. In the DDx room, his team was already waiting for him at the table, but strangely Arlene was there, too. No one seemed to think this was out of the ordinary.

"What happened? Where's Cuddy?" he said frantically.

They looked at him benignly, all smiling.

"Didn't you hear?" Foreman said. "Cuddy is married to Lucas now. They moved to Phoenix yesterday. Isn't that wonderful news?"

Arlene started laughing, a loud, witchy cackle: "You didn't seriously think she was going to stay with you, did you? You were the biggest mistake of her life!"

The team joined in her laughter.

"She was never yours, House! She was never yours!" they shouted in unison.

He woke up with a start. His leg was killing him. He took a vicodin and tried, unsuccessfully, to fall back asleep.

#######

A few nights later, Joe Hart made an announcement to the crowd.

"Our next song requires a good piano player and luckily we have one in the house tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause for Dr. Greg!"

"Hey, that's you, honey!" Cora said, as House limped self-consciously to the stage.

In moments, he forgot that he was even a little anxious. They were doing Huey Lewis' "The Heart of Rock and Roll"—and the crowd was cheering and stomping and House allowed himself to get lost in the music. Joe even let him have a small solo, which he performed with a flourish, rolling his hands up and down the piano for effect. House found himself grinning like an idiot for the first time in months.

He eventually got to know the other guys in the band: Besides Joe, there was Scooter, the bass player; Kyle, the drummer; and Irv, the rhythm guitarist. He loved the fact that they were just regular guys. Scooter was a recovering addict who worked at a guitar shop during the day; Kyle had been in a New Wave band that had a minor hit in the 80s and was now a manager of a hardware store; Irv was an IT guy at a local community college.

They didn't talk about their feelings a lot, they weren't constantly taking House's emotional temperature. The fact that House could be a little caustic didn't faze them one bit—in fact, they were constantly taking the piss out of each other, gleefully calling each other "shithead" and "asshole."

When House popped a vicodin in front of them, they side-eyed him. "For my leg," House explained. It was never mentioned again.

He started sitting in for longer and longer sets. After a few weeks, he was pretty much a permanent fixture on stage.

One night, Joe walked up to the mic.

"Hey everybody, we're the Joe Hart Five."

And that was that.

#######

"You're that piano player, right?"

A dangerously young, dangerously buxom blonde had sidled up next to him at the bar.

"Very observant of you," House said.

"You're cute," she said, not picking up on his sarcasm.

"And you are beautiful just as God made you. That is, if God made you with bleached blonde hair, 36 Ds, and a righteous fake tan."

"I haven't gotten many complaints," she said, still thinking he was flirting. "Buy a girl a drink?"

"Let me guess. . .sea breeze? Long Island Iced Tea?"

"Red Bull and rum," she told Cora.

Wow. He was out of practice.

House nodded at Cora, in a resigned sort of way. What the hell. He'd buy the girl a drink.

She started asking him inane questions about the piano: How did he memorize all that music and did he have especially strong finger muscles and had he ever met Sting?

He answered monosyllabically, just letting her blather on.

"And what do you do for a living?" he finally asked. "Nuclear fusion?"

"I work in a day care center. Do you like kids?"

"I have been known to like individual children," he said, thinking of Rachel.

"You're funny," she said. "I bet you're a real softy."

"You got me!" he said, smiling fakely at her.

After chugging her drink, and then two more, she pressed her boobs up against him, whispered in his ear.

"Hey Piano Man, you want to get out of here?"

"Actually, I want YOU to get out of here," House said.

She was stunned.

"Well, screw you!" she said, grabbing her purse and storming away.

"You're welcome for the drinks," he yelled after her.

Cora gave him a disapproving look.

"You see?" he said, almost proudly. "I told you I was a jerk."

#######

The waiter handed him a drink, gestured. "From the lady in blue," he said.

House looked into the crowd, felt his heart skip a beat.

Cuddy.

What the hell was she doing here? Had she followed him? Or was it just his incredibly bad luck?

He immediately took in the fact that she was on a date. The guy was middle aged, blandly handsome, in a Viagra commercial sort of way. He looked exceedingly. . .normal. How does she get to be so normal all the time? he thought. It was all so easy for her.

House pulled himself together, enough to raise his glass in thanks. She and Viagra boy responded in kind.

As he played the rest of the set, he watched them out of the corner of his eye. By their body language, he could tell that it was a first date. She was smiling, laying on that megawatt charm of hers. Poor sap didn't have a chance.

They're going to have sex tonight, he thought to himself, feeling sick. For a second, he had an almost overwhelming urge to leap off the stage and strangle the guy.

Instead, he stopped watching and tried to concentrate on the music.

#######

The next day, he went to Cuddy's office for damage control.

She promised that she would tell no one about his moonlighting gig and he believed her. Cuddy had never lied to him. Not on purpose at least.

He figured that would be the end of it. So he was surprised when, a week later, he was up on stage and detected a faint whiff of her perfume. He looked down: She was at the bar, ordering a martini.

She looked amazing, of course. She was still in her work clothes, but had taken off the jacket, revealing a sleeveless black camisole underneath. Her skirt was as provocatively form fitting as ever. Sitting at the bar, her legs crossed, a $900 pair of Louboutins gracing her feet, she looked completely out of place: A princess among commoners.

"What's her angle?" he muttered out loud to himself.

Was she checking up on him? Simply making sure that he wasn't drinking and drugging himself into a coma?

He knew that no matter how bad things were between them, Cuddy would always step up to protect her hospital's most valuable asset. (She needn't have worried about him, though. Ever since becoming a permanent member of the Joe Hart Five, House's vicodin consumption was seriously down.)

He sighed. Forced himself to walk over and say hello.

"Dr. Cuddy. What brings you here?"

She made up some excuse about wanting to watch him play.

Yeah sure, Cuddy. Because there aren't 50 equally good bar bands from here to Princeton.

He introduced her to Cora, who glared.

"Play nice," he said, secretly hoping that Cora would give her hell.

#######

The thing was, she kept showing up.

Every Thursday night, like clockwork. Sitting at the bar. Upping the general IQ and hygiene level of the place with her mere presence.

He really couldn't figure out her game until he noticed that she had switched from martinis to scotch, that her clothing was getting increasingly casual—the tight business suits replaced by leggings and jeans, plus drapy shirts that fell coquettishly off her shoulder. She was even letting her hair curl more.

She's hiding out, he thought. Just like I am.

She was also—and this part was unmistakable—flirting with him. She would compliment his playing, giggle at his jokes with that deliciously husky laugh of hers, and touch his hand or shoulder whenever they talked.

It was certainly a vast improvement over those mournful looks she had been giving him in the hospital, but it confused the hell out him.

The guys in the band noticed, too, gave House grief about it, especially the night she sat on his lap when they played poker. (He was grateful, for once, that he was 50, not 18, so he was able to suppress a boner.)

What does she want from me? he kept asking himself.

Then one night, she gave a little performance that seemed designed to drive him crazy. She got up to the front of the stage, danced seductively, batting her eyelashes at him, then tossed back a shot to celebrate.

Every guy in this bar wants to fuck her, he thought grimly.

When the band finished their final set, she was still at the bar.

He offered to walk her to her car.

What he wanted to do, more than anything, was take her in his arms, ravage her, lock her in his apartment for days, where they would subsist on sex and water.

Instead, they stood silently. He looked into her eyes, let his fingers linger on her cheek, tried to make some sense of her.

Didn't she realize that this wasn't some sort of game to him? Didn't she know that he still loved her?

"You're killing me, Cuddy," he said. Because it was true.

#######

At work, both played their normal roles—she the disapproving boss; he the irreverent doctor—without ever acknowledging the new closeness they were building at Mike's.

But a week after House had stood helplessly in front of her car, Cuddy wandered into his office. It was clear she wanted something from him, that she was filled with unspoken expectations.

He was familiar with this behavior of hers—instead of telling him specifically what she wanted from him, or why she was upset, she made him guess. And back when they were dating, if he didn't guess right, she saw it as a referendum on their entire relationship. (Case in point: Toothbrush Gate 2011).

But today, he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of even attempting to figure out what she wanted to hear.

She's the one messing with me, he thought. She's the one who needs to explain herself.

"Everything good?" she asked.

"Everything's good," he answered neutrally.

Her face fell.

"Okay then," she said, turning to leave.

Her body language oozed disappointment. And House just couldn't stand seeing her like that.

"See you tonight?" he asked.

She straightened. He could practically see the smile radiating through her back.

Apparently, he had guessed right.

#######

House sat alone at the piano, playing some jazz. The band had cleared the stage and the bar crowd was thinning out. Cuddy got up from her barstool. It looked like she might leave, which House wasn't ready for yet. He cocked his head, patted on the bench next to him.

She hopped on stage, sat beside him.

He started playing a song that he had written for her once, years ago.

"That's beautiful," she said dreamily, inching closer.

"I wrote it for you," he said.

He'd had more than one scotch that night—and he was equally intoxicated by her nearness.

So he didn't care.

He didn't care if this was just some sort of forbidden fling to her, a little role-playing fantasy that she was engaging in away from the hospital.

He didn't care that she didn't love him the way her loved her, maybe never would.

He didn't care that he would have to pick up the pieces, again, of his own broken heart, just when it was beginning to mend. He had to have her, now.

So he kissed her, deeply. He was in awe, as always, by the feel of her lips, her skin, her hair. She was so tiny, but so strong, and she matched his ardor with her own.

Cora teasingly told them to get a room, which was probably a good idea.

"My place?" he was able to croak out.

"I'm right behind you," she said.

He sped home on his motorcycle and was amazed that she kept up with him. She was, apparently, as eager as he was.

Once upstairs, he wasn't sure if he should offer her a drink, follow some protocol, but no sooner had they stepped in the doorway, she was all over him, peeling off pieces of her clothing as they stumbled their way to the bedroom.

When House fantasized about sex with Cuddy, he thought more of her orgasm than his own. Tonight, Cuddy, in her urgency, wanted to have sex right away but he wanted to savor the moment, draw the pleasure out.

He moved his tongue slowly down her body, lightly bit and sucked her nipples, kissed the hollow of her stomach, teasingly licked her inner thighs until she was practically twitching with desire. He went down on her, and she lay back, moaning his name. Finally, after she came—it was a tidal wave of an orgasm, it shook the bed—he entered her. He tried to sustain it, but was so turned on by her taste, her voice, her orgasm, he couldn't last very long.

They made love again, this time longer, rocking together in perfect rhythm, reacting to each other's bodies, like a great jazz duo.

Then they fell asleep, her naked body cupped so perfectly into his.

A lesser man would've cried.

#######

"What's going on, Dr. Greg?"

Cora, it turned out, was better at monitoring his moods than Dr. Nolan had ever been.

"I slept with her, Cora," he said. "That night, last week."

She smiled knowingly. "Yeah, I kind of picked up on that, sweetie. So why do you look so upset?"

"She was gone in the morning. She didn't even say goodbye."

He took a self-pitying swig of his drink.

"She's a mother, Dr. Greg. She has that little girl to get home to."

"I think she's done with me," he sighed. "I think this whole thing was her way of working me out of her system. For good."

Cora chuckled.

"What's so damn funny?" he asked.

"If she's done with you, she sure has a funny way of showing it."

He turned. Sure enough, Cuddy was approaching the bar.

"Hi," she said, sitting next to House, smiling broadly. She turned to Cora: "I'll have a scotch on the rocks."

#######

At breakfast, she told Wilson she was dating a piano player. Later that afternoon, he went to her office, sat on the edge of her couch.

"Tell me more about this piano player you're dating," he said, grinning.

She was up for the game. Sat across from him, crossed her legs. Smiled mischievously.

"He's quite tall. . ."

"Excellent."

"Ruggedly handsome. . ."

"Naturally."

"Has funny hair."

"Oh."

"But I kind of like his funny hair."

House smiled.

"Good," he said. "Tell me more."

"Brilliant. Annoyingly so."

"God, that is annoying."

"But when he plays piano, he's quiet. Soulful. I like him when he's quiet."

"Note to self: She likes him when he's quiet."

"Good note."

He wanted to get to the good stuff.

"And the sex?" he said, leaning forward.

"Mind blowing," she said, without hesitation.

"Mind blowing. Wow. Would you go so far as to say the best you've ever had?"

"Definitely," she said, shaking her head at him like he was impossible.

"So when can I meet this super stud?"

"Not tonight. Tonight he and I have a date."

He looked at her quizzically. It wasn't even a Thursday.

"Tonight?" he said.

"Yeah, he's coming over to my place for dinner."

"He is?'

"He is." Firmly.

"Wow. Lucky guy."

"No, I'm the lucky one," she said. And gave him a look that made his heart melt.


End file.
